Year: 2011
Further [song lyrics]
Cleaning out the air
dirt was everywhere
now the deed was done
I can see the sun
Bathing in its light
no more need to fight
finally some rest
was it all a test
Through one eighty days
(I was) living in a haze
couldn’t see the ground
never heard the sound
of my pumping heart
going stop and start
if it didn’t end
I would never mend
I went further than ever before
Didn’t even have a map
Found within me some space unexplored
Couldn’t find my own way back
Something has to change
need to rearrange
every broken fence
so it all makes sense
Every now and then
must remake again
taking off the gloves
leaving only love
[If you’d only be my dream
You would never have to scheme]
So where are you now
Growing up somehow?
have you learned to see
not just you but me
When your chains have gone
and you sing our song
I will know that we
can truly be
I went further than ever before
Didn’t even have a map
Found within me some space unexplored
Couldn’t find my own way back
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Your Beauty [poem]
Your beauty does not lie in the dubious gift
of symmetricalish facial features
for such faux perfection would not fit
your many-sided multi-facet
overarching wealth of assets
random drawn by their creator’s
palette-painted teaching
Above the Fray [song lyric]
Pick me up and dust me down
Find a way to wipe that frown
Off the face of Father Sun
Shining down on everyone
Why do clouds obscure the view?
Why the air ’tween me and you?
Why the tear ’tween I and me?
Why’s the news not poetry?
Unsprung Song [sonnet]
There’s something I wanted to say today
but everything in me conspires with might
making the gist of it fritter away
(my meteorite wordpuzzle fly-by-night).
It cries out, it screeches, it longs to be free.
It yearns for expression affirmatively.
It even harangues me while I’m asleep
invading my dreams — it’s more than skin-deep.
But what if I blurt out this unsprung song?
What if it will not be bound anymore —
its clamour for light I cannot ignore —
its secret sound I can no more prolong?
Those words which want so vastly to be said:
Than give them up, I’d far rather be dead.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Sanctorum [new sonnet]
I’ve bowed down at some shrines throughout my days.
With reverence through those thresholds I did glide.
All hallowed be those holy entryways;
such spaces I regard as rarefied.
Whatever vault of spirit’s blaze I pierce —
a chapel, church or vast cathedral span —
I take no unrewarded souvenirs
save only my advancement as a man.
However, not all altars are the same;
the chancel which they grace will play a part.
Not every sacred place sets me aflame.
Not all sanctorums scintillate my heart.
Of all the times I’ve been through temple doors,
the only ones I’d worship in are yours.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
2 2 1 [poem]
Two broken eggshells
(inside skin holding parts together)
met along the alleyway
of love’s long dream —
Their yolks shot through with yellow
though anything but mellow was the ride
Two cracked-up nutshells
(not completely shattered into shards)
collided in the ethermist
of scarred entrails
unveiling untold treasure
which struggles for the measure of its stride
Platonic Play [poem]
“Sometimes I think you have one rule for me
and another rule for you — wanting to be free”.
So said your husband, a shake in his voice;
[He loved her with hugeness — he hadn’t a choice].
You do what you want however much it hurts;
your sting camouflaged in the folds of your skirts.
You live for the moment (your moment that is)
and with such a lifestyle you find nothing amiss.
For the ‘moments’ of others are not your concern;
empathy’s closeness you don’t want to learn.
The Stormy Calm of End [sonnet]
Condemned to live without a woman’s touch
for once too often love had been betrayed.
Perhaps the word «condemned» you think too much
because by choice that bold resolve was made.
The desert has a beauty of its own —
a boundless smooth and undulating sea;
just like the flesh which once had been enthroned
within the mind which now spurns company.
Yet, in eremic wastes there is sublime
and slakeful consolation to be found;
as pouring sand is used to portray time
with promises of soundless underground.
For only in the stormy calm of end
can we the taint of treachery transcend.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
When people discover that I haven’t drunk any alcohol
When people discover that I haven’t drunk any alcohol for more than 40 years I get some very interesting reactions. A popular one is “You don’t drink?!!? How boring!” They mean it must be boring for me because I don’t drink and that it’s also boring for them because they want everyone to be like they are. Another reaction is “Oh, are you a recovering alcoholic then?” For the record, I am neither bored nor am I a recovering alcoholic. I don’t drink 1) Because it only takes a thimbleful to make me silly (as I discovered when I was a teenager); 2) Because I am already high enough on life, love, music, wordness & nature to need any artificial stimulants; 3) I like to have a clear head and enough incisive focus to leave no stone unturned; 4) I’ve never liked to follow the crowd. So… I hope that explains everything! 🙂
Little Puppy Dog [poem]
He’s like a little puppy on his first extended walk:
Rushing up to every face
without defences held in place.
So much wanting just to give;
loves the moment — loves to live.
Won’t object to being stroked;
pulled so hard he nearly choked.
Strides through bullshit everywhere;
little puppy doesn’t care —
he just bounces round with glee
exasperates his family.
Sees the whole world as his friends
lives and loves as life intends
doesn’t mind who he offends.
“Tut-tut”, they say, with features stern.
“That little puppy needs to learn
to simmer down and play it cool.
Let’s put him through some fancy school
where he can gain some adult skills
grow some horns, cut down on thrills”.
At that, he breaks the leash — bursts free.
That little puppy dog…
is me.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 